No words.
No warning.
Just gone.
For the first ten minutes I sat there in the mud, trying to understand what had just happened.
My father had beaten me.
My father had left me in a storm in the middle of nowhere.
Like I was nothing.
Like I was disposable.
I crawled into the ditch, hands in mud, searching blindly for my phone. Rain pounded my back. Water ran down my face. My ribs screamed every time I inhaled.
I couldn’t find it.
He knew what he was doing.
Location sharing wouldn’t help now. My last ping would have been near home before we lost signal. Once the phone was tossed, it was just a dead piece of plastic in weeds.
I had no wallet. I’d left it on my dresser, assuming we were going for a short drive. I had no cash. No ID. No way to call anyone.
And I was about forty miles from home. I checked later on a map. That number still makes my throat tighten.
I couldn’t stay there.
I picked a direction and started walking.
The road was narrow. No shoulder. Just gravel edge that turned slick with rain. Every few minutes a car would pass, headlights blinding me, and I’d have to step down into the ditch to avoid getting clipped.
No one stopped.
I probably looked like a drowned rat stumbling through a storm, bleeding and shaking, and still nobody stopped.
Every step hurt.
My ribs were the worst. Each breath felt like a knife sliding between bones. My hands were scraped and stinging. My knees ached. My head throbbed from where it hit the window.
Time didn’t make sense. It was just rain and pain and the rhythm of my feet on gravel.
After what felt like forever, I saw lights ahead.
A truck stop.
One of those big travel centers with gas pumps and a diner, fluorescent glow spilling into the dark like a promise.
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